


Left Of Centre

by honeypuffed



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:11:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeypuffed/pseuds/honeypuffed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything’s more awkward when you have no control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Left Of Centre

There is no such thing as rational thought. Rational? What is that anyway?

Tim leaps over the couch. It's the quickest path to the kitchen — who wouldn't take it? He begins to peel his costume off on the way to the fridge in time to the music in his head. It's got a great beat. He could dance to it. Dance to it. Dance.

He twirls around and opens the fridge. It feels like club music. Not that Tim's really one for clubbing, but he imagines. He can feel the beat all through his body, pulsing in his wrists and fingertips, in his thighs and calves and toes. He's going to have some orange juice. He puts out his hand to grab it and oh, he's bleeding. There's a cut down the entire length of his right thumb. He can't feel it though. It's okay.

So, orange juice. It's kind of bitter, but the pulp is nice and every single piece shimmies down his throat to the music.

Is someone calling him? That sounds like his name.

He spins on one foot and hey, Alfred, what's up? Drink more orange juice. What time is it?

Alfred says it's fast tree. What does that mean? So many questions. Alfred is not very intelligent.

There are hands on his shoulders then and a face appears in front of his that wasn't there a second ago.

"Tim."

His name again. His name being said out loud. "Tim," he slurs in response and blinks really hard. Green and purple and it's Dick in front of him. His hair is red. Pretty. Tim reaches to touch it, feel it between his fingers, knot it around them. Soft, smooth. He presses fingerprints into Dick's scalp and closes his eyes briefly.

"Tim, are you listening?"

He is! He's very good at listening. Not to Damian though. He shouldn't have to. No. He's sick of these leggings. Time to get rid of those.

Dick shakes him a little and his pulse is quickened and _heavy_. Tim lets it in, through Dick's palms and onto his bare shoulders and into his heart. He wants to match it. It's a nice pulse.

"Let me," Tim says, but doesn't- doesn't finish. He pulls Dick's hands away so he can strip down to his boxers and then he puts them back. Such lovely, lovely hands. Hands that can do anything, hands that can go anywhere and _have_ been everywhere. Tim holds them at his shoulders for a moment, lingers (warmthwarmthwarmth), before dragging his own hands down his chest over his nipples. Tim can't remember being so sensitive. The music in his head changes tracks and he adjusts his speed accor- mmm- accordingly. He slides hands down over his stomach and ah, ah so warm. He pauses at his boxers, tucking his thumbs under the waistband. Just going to dance for a moment. Dick should dance too. It's good music!

"No Tim, god, stop. Listen to me."

Dick, you spoilsport.

"What happened tonight? Who..."

Tim misses the next few words, but he's sure there's 'drugged' in there somewhere. That's funny though. Why would Dick think he was drugged? Dick swirls into yellows and oranges. "Orange juice," Tim says. "You should have orange juice. And dance with me." It's such a great idea. Why haven't they done this before?

Dick slides one hand up to to Tim's neck and squeezes and there. _There_. Now he's able to match Dick's pulse. The music changes to fit. He begins to sway his hips back and forth. Dick. Should. Dance. He stretches his arms out and wraps them tightly around Dick's waist and pulls him in. Then— _oh_ , god, then—

He takes a deep breath and lets Dick's heat flow into him, like waves crashing through his skin, down down down through his muscles and bones, from his hairline to the very tips of his toes. His head spins.

And then he's flying. Fucking yes, god, it feels so good to fly.

"Hold on," Dick says into his ear.

Ah, his face is buried in Dick's neck. He drags his tongue over it languidly, tasting it, tasting _him_. Is he being carried now? No matter. Flying. Dick tastes like the nighttime air and smoke and Atlantis. He sucks and bites and licks again. Red pulses out from Dick's skin and if Tim bites harder, he can get some purple and gold in there too. Dick has a tight grip around his thigh and stomach. It feels amazing. He strains his neck to suck Dick's earlobe into his mouth.

"Fuck, Tim," Dick says and Tim just replies,

"Yeah," because he'd fuck Tim too. Who wouldn't?

"Good to know," Dick says, laughing a little, and it reverberates through Tim and goes straight to his cock. Mm. He could—

He tightens one arm around Dick's shoulders and neck, and frees the other one so he can slip it in his boxers and oh oh _oh_ , yes.

"Jesus, Tim, fuck. Couldn't you wait a—"

Tim doesn't hear the rest of the sentence over the music. He turns to volume up to max as he strokes himself. One two three four, to that music.

When Dick puts him onto the bed, Tim falls through it, engulfed in quilting and foam and springs and stuffing. It's suffocating. He grabs Dick's shirt to hold himself up and just breathe, _breathe_ as he comes and the room bursts into a thousand colours he's never seen before. He can sort of see Dick, kind of, but he's less a person and more just a twisting mess of shapes and lines and bleeding colours. There's a feeling hanging around the back of his mind, aiming pebbles at the rational part of his brain and screaming that something has just gone terribly wrong, but it doesn't quite catch. Not yet. His hair is a tangled mess and his skin is burning up, but his heartbeat is returning to normal and—

And _then_ it all starts to pull away. The track in his head finishes, but a new one doesn't start; time returns to normal speed and Tim starts to think. _Think_.

And oh fuck fuck fuck. _Fuck_. He just. Fuck. His skin catches fire all over.

"Tim?"

Tim yanks his hand away from Dick's shirt and squeezes his eyes shut, bringing his arm over them for good measure. Fuck.

"Tim, you with us?"

He makes a sound in his throat to show he's heard, but he can't bring himself to speak. There wouldn't even be words enough for this.

"You okay, little brother?"

Fuck. Of all the times to— He nods but doesn't open his eyes, _can't_ open his eyes. He's still got his hand in his shorts and god he's sticky and hot and he needs Dick to just go away so he can clean up and pretend this never happened.

He still feels like the bed is swallowing him up, but it's slowly righting itself. Not that he wants it to anymore. He would be perfectly happy right now to sink into the mattress and never come back out again.

"Could you—" his voice comes out horribly choked, and he has to cut off. God, how can he even. Fuck. He clears his throat, hiding behind his arm. "Could you just—" This is _not_ working.

"Hey, hey," Dick says softly, pulling Tim's arm away from his face.

All over, Tim's skin is hot and sensitive and it tingles at the contact.

"Hey, don't worry about it. It's fine." Dick leans over and brushes Tim's bangs from his forehead and lightly kisses him there. "Seriously."

Tim's skin burns a darker red and his eyes snap open. "Don't-" God. This is hard enough without—

Dick recoils. "I'm sorry, I didn't. Are you hurt? Did—"

"Not that," Tim quickly cuts him off. As a follow up, his stupid mouth dribbles out: "Just that it's y-you— and well—" God he needs to get his hand out of his pants this is ridiculous and highly embarrassing.

"What?" Dick says as Tim promptly tugs a blanket over his entire body and head. "It's- oh. _Oh_." He pauses, and then says, "Oh," one more time.

"Mm," Tim hums weakly from beneath the blanket.

If there's a book out there on the Worst Confessions Ever, this definitely deserves at least a line or two.

"I'll. I'll come back. In a minute." Dick says finally and shuffles out.

Tim almost cries with relief. He takes a second to die a little more, and then cleans himself up quicker than ever before. He pulls on track pants, sprints to the kitchen to grab a glass of water, and he almost gets to the shower to lock himself up in there forever, but Dick catches his arm.

"Not so quick, Timmy."

Tim pointedly doesn't make eye contact, just keeps his gaze set down and in the general direction of the bathroom. "I'm getting in the shower."

"Tim, it's fine." He squeezes Tim's forearm gently. " _You're_ fine." He slides his hand down and laces their fingers together. Tim stiffens, but Dick just tugs him back towards himself and wraps his arms around him. "Okay?"

Tim's body relaxes and he mumbles, "Okay," quietly into Dick's shoulder. His ears and cheeks are still hot, and Dick can probably feel it against his neck.

Tim is never getting over this. Ever.


End file.
